


The Worst Call

by days4daisy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothed Sex, Haggling with Benefits, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, MayThe4th Treat, Movie: Star Wars: A New Hope, Post-Battle Injuries, Post-Rogue One, Pre-Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Han has a bad feeling about this, but he can't bring himself to care.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngeNoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/gifts).



> I was so happy someone requested this ship, AngeNoir! Hope you like it :)

If Han's head were on straight, he would have walked away from this conversation a long time ago. A knowing hum vibrates next to him. He elbows Chewie in the ribs.

Han is smart. He doesn't need the Wookiee to know this is a bad idea. For one, this guy has no money. He wears the bluff well, face cold as an ice moon. It's too well-rehearsed though, an act Han knows well. Hell, he perfected the art form! Fake it til you make it.

Then, there's the outfit. Nondescript bomber jacket, sleeves rolled up. Non-Imperial military-grade blaster he's pretending Han and Chewie haven't seen in his waist holster.

Rebel. _Broke_ Rebel. Han's already risking his neck taking side offers within earshot of Jabba's palace. Mos Eisley is crawling with scum-sucking bounty hunters, not to mention the Stormtroopers.

Renting himself out on Jabba's watch is risky enough when the pay is good! Han can't waste time on jobs for no money. _Especially_ when those jobs benefit the Rebellion. It's not that Han loves the Empire; been there, done that. But Han likes being alive and free to make a decent living. Taking Rebel jobs isn't a good look for a smuggler. He's known saps who made that mistake. Most aren't breathing now, and the ones who are wish they weren’t.

But...Han's head isn't on straight.

He scrapes at a chip in the wall as he pretends to evaluate the bullshit proposition. "Let me get this straight. You need a ride out to Kafrene. No cargo, just a passenger run. And you'll give me how much?"

"1 now, the rest on-site." The guy raises a brow. "You don't think I'm good for it?"

"I'm sure you're good for a lot of things," Han enthuses. He ignores the impatient growl at his side. The Wookiee has no right to talk. Han has _seen_ what Chewie's tried to pick up.

Their would-be partner has a body fit for marathons, a no-bullshit stare, and a mouth that’s begging for some fun. His hair is on the longer side; Han digs that. His hands are strong and scuffed up; done some heavy lifting in their day. And that secret gun in his holster is chipped from use but still sporting a fresh shine. The guy might not have much cash, but he makes do with what he has.

When Chewie snorts, Han glowers at him. “What, you got somewhere better to be? This guy needs help! Don’t you, Mister - uh -”

“Bex,” the Rebel mutters. “Bex Chadwell.”

Of all the stupid aliases! Han doesn't bother hiding his incredulity. “Uh-huh. Well, I’m Han Solo, captain of the Millennium Falcon. This is my right hand Chewbacca. The Falcon’s got the juice you’re looking for. Kafrene's no problem. It’s just…” He picks at another crack in the wall. “I’m on Jabba’s payroll, get it? Any run I take off the big guy costs me serious cash. I’d be doing myself a disservice taking your gig. No offense.”

“Then why are we still talking?” Bex hisses, rising to his feet.

Chewie tucks his hands behind his head like he’s won something. Han glares at him before waving Bex back down. “Geez, touchy. I didn’t say no. Sit down.”

“You haven’t said yes either,” Bex mutters. He doesn't sit. The angle lets Han take a long look up Bex’s body.

Might as well cut to the chase. Han puts on his sweetest smile. “I gotta know what I’m getting into carting a Rebel around, that's all.” Bex's mouth slacks in surprise.

The shock doesn't last long. Bex sits back down with his blaster out. He aims at Han under their table.

Chewie snarls and starts to stand. Han catches his arm before he can. “Easy, Chewie,” he says. “Two fellas talking shop, that's all.” He turns back to their Rebel friend, and the scowl pulling at his mouth. Bex wears his anger like a second skin; it's kind-of hot. “Nothing personal,” Han assures him. “I’ve been around long enough to spot your kind. Got no problem with the Rebellion.”

“Shouldn’t,” Bex grumbles. “It's your freedom we’re fighting for.”

Spoken like a true Rebel; smug son of a bitch. Han rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, pal. You and I both know, if we take your run it’s not just credits me and Chewie are risking. That'll cost you double. Call it insurance.”

"Double!?" Bex balks. “You two-timing-”

“How 'bout this? One-and-a-half the original price.” Han lifts his hands in a show of solidarity. “What can I say? I like you. Quiet,” he snaps at Chewie's huff. The Wookiee doesn't take kindly to discounts.

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Bex stands.

Han hails his retreating back. “If you change your mind, we’re in Hanger 94.”

Bex never acknowledges the statement, and Han does not see him for the rest of the day. Tatooine’s twin suns set, and a universe of stars spread across the sky.

Han and Chewie return to the Falcon. Bex Chadwell is standing outside with nothing but a small canvas backpack.

Chewie barks disapproval. Han brushes past him to the Falcon’s entrance. “You gonna tell me your real name now?” he asks.

Bex enters the ship behind him. He doesn’t say a word.

***

"I can't believe he stiffed us!" Chewie snorts, not at all sympathetic.

Han drums fingers on the Falcon's entrance ramp. They're over the rendezvous time by 4 standard hours. He doesn't like being on Kafrene even 1 hour over schedule. This place is a scum-pit. Sirens are screaming out in the main trade hub; they're making Han uneasy. Chewie too. The Wookiee's anxious hums have grown more insistent over the past thirty minutes.

On a normal day, Han would tell him to quit whining and grow a pair. But this doesn't feel normal. Han relents with a quiet, "Me too, pal. Five more minutes and we're out."

Han should have chalked this up as a loss hours ago. But, only getting 1,000 credits for a run from Tatooine to Kafrene? What the hell was Han thinking when he took that deal? (He wasn't thinking, to be fair. Not with his brain anyway.)

Two, Bex may still show up, and Han doesn’t want to leave the guy in a bind. Han has no clue where this sentiment is coming from. The guy has no money, and he didn’t offer anything physical as collateral. Han has fifty better prospects for both back on Tatooine! What is he doing risking his neck for some two-timing Rebel bastard?

Only...wait, here he is now. Bex appears from the shadows of Kafrene, a nervous glance over his shoulder. He has his blaster in-hand, and there's blood on him. Shit.

Chewbacca makes his feelings known, crossbow raised with a growl. Bex glances at him warily, then at Han. “I’ve got your cash,” he says. “We need to go. Now.”

Han nods towards the sirens. Is he imagining things, or are they louder now? “Those for you?” he asks. Bex doesn't answer.

Han sighs, then shoots Chewie a look. “Anchors up. We’re leaving.” Chewie snarls, eyes never leaving their companion. Bex stiffens visibly. Han rolls his eyes. “Save it for the ride home, Chewie. I said let's go!”

Han definitely isn’t imagining it. The sirens from the trade post are getting louder. Chewie hears it too. His attention snaps from their Rebel cargo to the shadows beyond the ship. A tick later, Chewie scales the Falcon’s entrance ramp and rushes to the cockpit. Han and Bex follow. The ramp pulls up as soon as they’re inside.

Han shoots Bex a serious look. “You better be good on our deal.” He glances at the blood on Bex's hands.

Bex is looking at it too. “I’m good for it,” he mutters. He rubs his hands together. The blood doesn’t look like his.

Han has a bad feeling about this, but there’s no time. He rushes to the cockpit and takes the captain’s chair. Headset on and coordinates set. “Punch it,” he hisses to Chewie.

They’re out right before the Imperials ID the ship.

***

Bex sets their credits on the console. 5,000 … 7,500 … 10,000. He looks at Han questioningly, and Han nods.

Han scoops the money off the metal top and hands it to Chewie. “Split it up.” He catches the Wookiee’s arm. “And don’t get greedy now. Remember, you wanted to ditch this job.”

Chewie huffs. Even with fresh cash, he isn’t a fan of their straggler. He shoots a hard stare at Bex before he departs.

“Your Wookiee doesn’t like people,” Bex notes. He’s lost his anxious twitch.

“Wookiees don’t like liars,” Han explains. “Part of the gig with your type. He gets it. But he wants you off this ship.”

Amusement tips Bex’s mouth upward. “He likes you though. I guess you're an honest sort of guy?”

Han smirks. “Chewie knows what he’s getting with me. We all gotta lie about the small stuff. World we live in. But,” his smile turns serious, “he knows exactly who am I and what I’m about. Doesn’t have to like it, but he knows I ain’t lying.” Han shrugs. “Luxury, I guess. You Rebels survive on lies.”

Bex's eyes darken. His neckline shows a sliver of the collarbone. “Coming from a smuggler for the biggest crime lord in the Outer Territories,” he mutters.

Han allows the point with a laugh. “Hey, I ain’t sticking up for Jabba. He’s no saint, but he pays good.”

“He better." Bex sniffs dismissively. "No morals to fall back on in your work. Just money, that's it.”

It’s been a long time since Han cared about morality. But he does like the hypocrisy coming from a Rebel. “So who’s blood was that on your hands, huh?” he prods. Bex’s eyes go cold. Han keeps right on talking. “Bet it was a super moral hit-job, huh?”

“You have no idea.” Bex scowls and shakes his head.

“I don’t," Han agrees. "You’re right.”

They stare at each other. Bex wants to say something, Han can tell. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair instead. “Must be nice,” Bex mutters at last, “to only have to look out for yourself and one Wookiee.” The anger creasing his forehead doesn't make it to his words.

“Usually is,” Han says, “when the going's good. When it’s bad, there’s no cavalry helping us out. We’ve got us, that’s it.”

Bex smiles, and it seems genuine for once. “Too much risk in a cavalry,” he admits, “even when you’ve got an army behind you.”

"Rough life," Han remarks.

Bex shrugs; probably can't afford to acknowledge how much it sucks being a soldier. He lifts a brow at Han instead. “Is Han Solo your real name?”

“Realest I got,” Han answers. “Only name I go by now, for what it’s worth.”

Bex nods and considers for a moment. “Mine’s not Bex Chadwell," he says slowly, as if admitting something huge.

“Ya think?" Han rolls his eyes. "Worst damn alias I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not bad,” Bex protests, defensive.

“No, it’s not bad. It’s the _worst_ ,” Han corrects. “Chadwell? Come on.”

“It doesn’t come up on any registries,” Bex says. “Good enough for me.”

Han can’t argue, but he still grumbles, “Terrible. You come up with that yourself?”

The comment earns a laugh; a flash of teeth and a barely audible huff. Han forgets to breathe for a second. _Fuck_ , he's hot. And not interested. This whole thing is one big waste of time. But... _fuck_ , he's hot.

Bex relaxes visibly. “Name's Cassian,” he says.

Han's smile grows. “There now, _that’s_ a name. Way better than Bex. Cassian." He likes how the name feels on his tongue. "I get a last name too?”

“No,” Cassian replies. It isn’t a surprise.

“Fair enough." Han considers his options, lip sucked into his mouth. What the hell? Doesn't hurt to give it a shot. "What do I get instead of your last name?”

Cassian arches a cynical brow. “You mean, other than the 10,000 credits?”

“Transport fees!" Han protests. "Space travel is expensive! Fuel costs are up, and there’s a whole lot of work that goes into maintaining this baby.”

“I’ll bet,” Cassian deadpans. His eyes roll towards the tangle of wires hanging from an open ceiling panel above their heads.

Han scowls. “Hey, she’s got it where it counts, pal.” He doesn’t like anything bad said about his ship. But he’s willing to allow it for the smile he gets from Cassian in return. Unfair for a Rebel to be such a damn looker. “Still think I should get something for that last name," Han presses. "You know mine. It’s only fair.”

“What did you have in mind?” It’s a dangerous question, and Cassian seems more than aware of it. His hands brace on the console behind him. His clothes are fitted enough to tell Han’s fingers exactly what they’re missing.

Han takes a gentleman's approach. He is, after all, a nice guy deep down. “Oh, I don’t know. One kiss?” At Cassian’s skepticism, Han puts on his best wounded look. “I don’t ask for much. It's rough out here traveling with a Wookiee! What, you think a guy like me is picking up favors at Jabba’s?” Which, yes, that’s exactly what Han does. But there hasn’t been much satisfaction recently. The crowd at Jabba’s already-low brow affairs has seemed even scummier of late. Or maybe Han is just bored with, well, everything.

Cassian doesn’t say a word. Han knows how to take a hint. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Anyway. Thanks for the payoff, we’ll get you back soon-”

“I didn’t say no,” Cassian says.

This is good. This is real good. Han clears his throat. “In that case.”

Han can play this one of two ways. He can go the ‘just kidding’ route. Peck the guy long enough to satisfy his need for a warm mouth. No pride risked in that. He can also cut to the chase and kiss Cassian as hard as the guy's open to having it. If Han is only getting one kiss out of this deal, might as well make it count.

But Cassian's eyes distract Han from both options. They’re too dark and focused on him. It makes Han’s hand stutter mid-reach for Cassian’s shoulder. His palm is cupping Cassian’s face before he catches himself. Cassian’s head tips under it, amused and curious.

Han has a very bad feeling about this. He's also stopped caring about personal space, closer now than he had any intention of getting. He expects Cassian to stand up straighter, force Han to give him some room. But Cassian stays exactly where he is. Han startles when Cassian’s thumbs curl through his belt loops. His body is urged forward. Cassian's amusement grows more pronounced.

When Han does kiss him, it’s all wrong. Soft. Quiet. Cassian sighs into him, followed by a quick intake of breath. It's as if his own reaction is a shock. Han likes it. Cassian's mustache rasps against his skin. Han catches Cassian’s lip between his, gratified by a low hum. His hair slips too easily between Han's fingers. Han thumbs around his ear, hyper-aware of the shiver that follows.

Cassian’s fingers flatten on the small of his back. Their bodies fit together like they're made to. Cassian’s mouth falls from his, catching his breath beside Han’s jaw. Han's lips brush his cheek. Every exhale against his neck makes his skin flush hotter.

“Not bad.” Han doesn't sound as casual as he'd like. Cassian’s fingers scratch the flat of his back. Han's waist jumps; he barely bites back a more audible reaction. “Round two?” he manages.

He feels Cassian’s silent laugh. “You said we have time to kill.”

“I did say that,” Han agrees, proud of himself. “We’ve got _a lot_ of time.”

“How much is a lot?”

Han answers by kissing him. Just one more time, to get the guy out of his system. And another time after that.

And...one last time. Or...a second-to-last time…third-to-last...ok, maybe one more...

By the time they’re in Han’s bunk, Han’s knees are jelly. He barely gets the door keyed shut before Cassian is pulling him back. The friction of their bodies has become downright maddening. The swipe of his slacks on Cassian’s shoots need down Han's spine. Cassian’s head tips back for a breath. Han’s mouth strays down his neck. It’s long and tense, biteable in so many places.

Cassian gets Han's vest on the floor and moves quickly to his shirt. Han pulls back enough for Cassian to get it off, nipping down Cassian’s throat. Cassian’s fingers skim the hair on his belly. His shirt rubs against Han’s skin. Han's chest snags on the fabric, nipples already hardened nubs.

Han doesn't expect the hand on his back to drift under his pants. Cassian pulls their bodies tighter. Han can feel him under his clothes. He tries for space, but he can't deny the hand Cassian digs into his hair. It pulls him back in, and Han comes gladly. What’s air matter anyway?

Han’s mouth is starting to sting, and Cassian’s fingers are making a mess out of his hair. The hand down Han’s back pulls him forward again. Pleasure stings down the front of Han’s slacks. Cassian’s shirt against his chest is starting to chafe. Han's nipples are red and sore. His cock is too damn hard in his pants.

Cassian stands straight against the door. His fingers follow Han's spine under his briefs. Han’s slacks are too tight for him to get all the way in. Cassian's fingers get deep enough to nudge pressure into the end of Han's tailbone. Just this makes Han jump, hips jutting forward. Cassian's pants are tight enough for Han to feel the outline of his erection. Is he groaning, or is Cassian? It’s one in the same now. Their mouths tangle together, hands knotted in each other’s clothes.

Han feels frantic, like if he takes two seconds to catch his breath he’ll miss out on something. He’s dizzy as hell, but Cassian’s mouth is so _good_. It tastes like copper under his lips, swelling up pink and pretty. Han's brain is short-circuiting. Should they move to the bed? Does Han want to fuck or be fucked? Where’s his lube? Where are his wraps? What the hell is wrong with him?

He’s too tied up to think straight, grinding up on a goddamn Rebel like an impatient teenager. Cassian scratches his tailbone, and Han jerks forward like it's his first time being touched. Their bodies collide; it downright _hurts_ now. Han's pants aren’t made for this. The zipper’s press against Han’s crotch is maddening.

Cassian curses under his breath, the only word he can get out before Han’s mouth is on him again. He thumbs down the flat of Cassian's throat, leaving a pink nail-line. Han is too hard. His blood is pumping too hot. He needs to get out of his clothes. He needs to _think_.

Fingers ghost between Han's legs. Han hisses.

Cassian kisses him before he can catch his breath. Their bodies grind up on each other. The friction makes heat spill through Han’s body. Han can't breathe. Cassian is too hard under him. Han is clawing at the wall abruptly, something nuclear and sudden in his gut.

Wait! They're supposed to be, this isn't-! “Fuck- nnnn-” What the _hell_.

Han shudders over Cassian, a hand wedging between them. It folds over the outline of Cassian through his clothes. He squeezes and grinds the heel of his palm. Works him as hard and fast as he can muster, the final waves of his orgasm making his touch unsteady. 

It's working though. He feels the stutter of Cassian's breaths under his lips. The catch of sound in the back of his throat. A tight, hissed, " _Wait_." But waiting has never been a part of Han Solo's personal philosophy. Not when he's already been shoved kicking and screaming over the edge, unraveled so disgustingly _easy_ that now he has cum in his shorts.

Two can play this game. Han follows Cassian's hitching breaths, the tensing of his body, the way his mouth is barely moving under Han's. Han steals an eyeful of his head tipping back. Color on his face, reddened mouth slacked open. The sound he makes is downright  _unfair_ , as is the tremor that shakes him. When Cassian comes, his eyes are closed, but his lashes keep on fluttering like pinned wings. It's sexy as hell. Han can't stop gawking at him.

Han's brain feels like lead. He wants to touch. He wants to kiss. He wants to announce how goddamn hot Cassian is. Why does he have to be a Rebel, huh? Rebels are only good for a quick one-and-done! Han wants a do-over. He wants many do-overs. And more making out. And maybe for Cassian to stick around his ship awhile. Where's he off to after Tatooine? Maybe Han can- Nope,  _no_ , no way.

Han is folded over Cassian’s body, grimacing into their lazy kiss. Slow and hard, Han’s fingers hooked into his shoulder. He tries his damndest to ignore the cooling wetness in his pants. This...is not his finest moment.

“I need a shower,” Cassian mumbles, accent extra-rough. His eyes are glassy, mouth painfully over-kissed. Dull scratch lines mark his neck. Sweat is making his shirt stick to his body. The bottom of it is rucked up like some dirty mag pin-up.

“Yeah,” Han agrees, head bowing to Cassian's throat. This is ridiculous. When's the last time Han fucking _came in his clothes_? He’s not sixteen, damn it.

Han should let Cassian shower. He should _not_ be nibbling up a side of the guy's neck. But hey, it's Cassian's fault. Cassian baits him with a sigh and lowers his head to greet him. They're both so sore that they share hisses when their lips meet.

When Cassian moves, Han moves with him. He's torn between grabbing Cassian's shirt and his hair. Han tries to do both and winds up with arms around him. Cassian's hands coast down his shoulder blades and lower, to grab him through his pants. With arms still tight around him, Han guides them to the bed. 

They’re on it somehow, lips still fixed together. Cassian climbs on top of him, unzipping and buckling. He peels off the mess Han’s made of himself. Han's cock is still half-thick and wet with his own cum. “Better?” Cassian asks.

“Mmm,” Han sort-of answers. He grabs a fist of Cassian's hair and pulls him down so he can’t say anything else.

The least Han can do is return the favor, right? He unbuttons and pushes until he gets Cassian's pants to his knees. Han should take his shirt off too, but he's too distracted by the view. Cassian is still blushed and slick with his own semen. He manages a pump into the hand Han curls around him, but the friction draws a grimace. Han gets it.

But that doesn't stop Cassian from fisting his hand around Han. He urges with a stroke of his thumb along the base. It’s not comfortable. Han is over-chaffed and post-orgasm raw. He would tell Cassian that, if he could stop kissing him for two seconds.

Cassian’s legs split wide enough to sandwich Han's waist. Half-hard cocks meet in a slow thrust of pressure. Han’s hand combs down his back and hooks over his ass. A tight thrust leaves streaks of spent cum between Han’s thighs.

They’re a goddamn mess. Han would tell Cassian, if he could stop kissing him.

It takes shifting, bending, and kicking for both to be free of their soiled pants. Cassian's land in a heap next to them on the bunk, Han’s plop somewhere on the floor. Cassian still has his shirt on, the back damp with sweat. Han has the neck of it balled in a fist. Cassian's fingers comb Han's scalp, and Han groans his approval. His hair must be a disaster. His eyes wet, lips red and chapped.

Han's half-erection scrawls lines on Cassian’s belly every time they shift together. Cassian’s weight is good on top of him. His hair sweeps the sides of Han's face.

When was the last time Han found himself tangled up like this? He dated this one stopover chick from Taris for awhile, that sex was pretty good. But this is on a whole different level. Han has no end goal in mind. No deadline, no motive. Just a kiss that stretches on, time lost under shifting hands. Weary thrusts gain more energy as the minutes roll on. Fingers and thighs squeeze around cocks already too stimulated, too spent. Freshly licked fists bump between pressed legs. Gasps snag between split lips. Tongues tease and teeth nip. Their noses bump between sighs and amused snorts.

Spasms of too-short second orgasms follow an hour later - or maybe three. They are even more of a mess, in even more need of a shower. Sticky and sweaty, smearing fresh stains between sore legs. They shift together on Han's thin sheets. Bruises and scratches are left in their wake.

Their mouths are still together. Humming between barely-there nudges. Their eyes close. Their lips move. “I need to shower,” Cassian mumbles. It doesn't feel like he's in any hurry to do so.

“Mmm,” Han sort-of agrees. He nods forward, and Cassian kisses him again. A dull ache reminds Han that he’s kissed his mouth raw. He’s going to look like shit for days. Han has bruises and nail-marks in places he’ll have a hell of a time covering on a desert shithole like Tatooine.

And forget Tatooine. Chewie will _never_ let Han live this down.

They’re hardly kissing, but they are still together. Cassian’s weight tips to the side with a grunt of effort, and Han follows. Their legs weave together, sweat and cum-stained. They both need a shower. Cassian’s fingers curl in a loose fist on Han’s shoulder. Han grabs his shirt.

He should really get up. Rinse off. Do something. He can't just stay here. Han is way too comfortable, and his body is feeling heavier and heavier. He needs to move. If he doesn't move...

Han wakes up in a panic. When the hell did he fall asleep!? He knows better than to crash out with a one-timer in his bed! Where's his cash? Where are his blasters? Are the engines still running?

Cassian knows better than to fall asleep too, if the circles under his eyes are any indication. He must need the rest though. Cassian is still down for the count, head tucked against Han's shoulder. 

Han should make Cassian move. They're a damn mess, and they need showers _badly_. Instead, Han traces fingers down Cassian's back. Cassian murmurs something Han can't understand in his sleep. His voice rumbles, husky and thick.

Han wonders if Cassian hooks up with his bunkmates back at whatever base he calls home. Or was this his first lay in forever too? Maybe Cassian needed it as much as Han. Hey, maybe he'll tell Han where he's off to after Tatooine, maybe they can... Nope, no, Han is _not_ getting wrapped up in Rebel business. No way, not a chance in hell.

Han tips his forehead against Cassian’s hair. He has a bad feeling about this, but he can’t bring himself to care.

***

Luke and Leia can say whatever the hell they want, Han isn't sticking around. Every day he's caught up in this Rebel mess is one day closer to Jabba and his goons coming for Han’s head. Han doesn't like that the kid and princess are throwing their lives away for a pipe dream. But they have to make their own choices. Han's already made his; he and Chewie are getting out of here.

They are hailed by a droid seconds before reaching the Falcon's ramp. “What!?” Han demands, spinning around. The size of the it catches him off guard. So does the make. What the hell is an Imperial droid doing at a Rebel base?

“Are you Han Solo?” the droid asks. Its glowing eyes shift between Han and Chewie, who sizes it up with a snarl of disapproval.

“Who wants to know?” Han shoots back.

“Captain Andor.”

“Captain?” It's bad enough that Han has had to deal with Luke and Leia's guilt trips. He got them from the Rebel officers too! Han and Chewie could really help up there, they said. The Falcon's firepower would be a huge asset. Han saw what the Death Star did to Alderaan, doesn't he want to help destroy the thing once and for all?

Han is through listening to the sales pitch. “Tell him thanks but no thanks. This thing's costing me two people I care about. No way am I throwing my life away too.”

“Obviously,” the droid drones. “I am on my third ‘life,’ insomuch as I can be alive. Death is not pleasant. I believe that’s why Captain Andor wants to say goodbye.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m telling you, I don’t know any…” Han frowns. “Wait. Andor. What’s his first name?”

The droid's gears whir behind his blinking eye sockets. “Cassian Andor,” he answers. “I’ll inform the captain that you have no interest in seeing him.”

“I’ll be damned,” Han breathes. His sentiment is echoed by a low murmur from Chewie.

He didn't hear a thing from Cassian after the Kafrene run. Cassian said he'd swing by if he could, but things were about to get hairy for awhile. Han asked about his next location. Cassian refused to give it. Too dangerous, he claimed. Han found that funny at the time.

Han is no Rebel, but he knows how to get intel. He paid his way into rumors about some crazy incident on Jedha Moon. The official story was a mining accident, but the guy Han bought off said there was Rebel action involved. Han took Chewie in for a fly-by. No harm in a quick stopover.

Mining accident, Han's ass. He'd been to Jedha City. Total shithole. But it would have taken a lot more than a mining accident to wipe the whole damn city off the map. Didn't make sense to Han until he got tangled up in the kid's business. A mining disaster couldn't cause that much damage, but the Death Star? Taking out Jedha City must have been a breeze for the battle station.

Han tried to stop thinking about Cassian after that. He knew better than to get invested from the start. Rebels don't live long enough to care about. The best Han could do was hope Cassian's death was quick and easy.

(Ok, Han asked around a few times at Jabba's before things went south. And Han kept an ear out for those telltale stupid-ass Rebel aliases. Not much chance some random grunt would know a guy named Bex Chadwell or Cassian. But hey, it didn't hurt to try.)

But Cassian is alive, it turns out. And he's here. On a rock about to be blown to bits by the Death Star.

“Best be on your way then,” the droid states. “I told Cassian not to invite you.”

Han grabs the droid’s arm. “Take me to him,” he demands. “Now.”

The droid looks between Han and the hand on its arm. “A 'please' would be nice.” He plucks Han’s fingers off like dust, then glances at Chewie. “You can’t come,” he says. “The captain doesn’t like Wookiees.”

Chewie growls, but Han puts a hand up before he can advance. “Easy, Chewie. I’ll be one minute, all right? Then we’re getting out of here.”

Displeased, Chewie still manages a reluctant nod. He glowers at the droid, who does not seem all too concerned.

Han follows the droid through the much quieter hanger bay. All fighter squads are already in the air. In a few minutes, the planet killer will be overhead. He’s led through old warehouse tunnels and past officers in uniform. Down the left corridor to white tiled floors and ceilings. The beeps of vital monitors ping Han’s ears. Med droids whir from bed to bed, data pads scrolling information. The closest cot to the door draws Han's stare.

They have only repaired one side of Cassian’s face. The other side is blistered in brown and red scars. His arm and chest are dressed in bandages soaked through with blood and ointment. His hair has been shaved off. He can only open one eye, bloodshot and dark-rimmed.

“You don't belong here,” the droid informs Han. Then, it steps back, giving them space.

Han knows he must be gawking. He doesn't know what's shaking him most: Cassian's condition, or that he's here in the flesh at all. Han all but gave up on seeing him again. Awful as it is, it was easier when he thought the guy was dead.

“I didn't believe it.” Cassian's voice scratches like a bad transmission. “Han Solo at a Rebel base.”

“Leaving, actually,” Han mutters. He shifts uncomfortably. “You’re about to have a planet killer over your head, in case you haven't heard.”

Cassian smiles with the side of his mouth he’s able to move. “I know,” he says.

Han knows then, without needing to ask. This won’t be the first time the Death Star loomed over Cassian's head. He's in this bed now because of it. Same thing that wiped out Alderaan and Jedha City. How the hell could anyone survive? Han has no idea, but Cassian did. Now he's here, and the planet killer is about to finish the job.

“Can you move?” Han asks. “Me n’ Chewie got the Falcon-”

“No.”

“I’ll take that damn droid of yours too.” Han shoots a look at the reprogrammed Imperial. Is he imagining it, or did the thing just  _scoff_ at him? “We got med supplies on the ship. If you tell me what you need, we’ll-”

“No,” Cassian repeats. He stares at Han through his one good eye. “I lost my team for the plans, Han. All of them. Whatever happens today is on me.”

“That makes no sense!” Han shouts. But it makes too much sense, that's the problem. The plans. The _Death Star_ plans. Same ones they nabbed off the battle station and brought back to Yavin. They're what this whole fool operation is pinning its hopes on.

“You got the plans here,” Cassian says. His voice strains, dry and painful. “You gave us a shot to beat this thing.”

Han reels back defensively. “Hey now, the princess got the plans. And the kid. I just flew the ship. I’m no Rebel, and I’m sure as hell not sticking around for-”

“I know.” Cassian turns when alarms begin to blare around above them. “You should go,” he says. “Get out while you still can.”

“We can take you,” Han insists angrily. “Me n’ Chewie, we got room. The stupid droid can come too, you hear me? We can take you.”

“It was good to see you again, Han,” Cassian says. His smile is weak but real. For a second, Han is back in his bunk, melting under kiss after kiss.

Crazy thoughts spill through Han’s head. He thinks of telling Cassian he’s coming anyway, damned what he wants. Han can call Chewie. There's still time to get Cassian off this rock before the Death Star hits.

He thinks of pointing a blaster at the droid and ordering him to pick up his captain; they need to get to the Falcon _now_.

Han gets crazier thoughts too. Insane, suicidal, fool-headed thoughts.

Han touches Cassian’s hand. His knuckles are swollen and bruised. "Andor," he murmurs. "Hell of a last name." Cassian breathes a silent laugh. Han's stomach does something that he doesn't like, not one bit. “Good seeing you too, pal,” he adds. “Let's catch up when this is all over, ok?”

Han sticks around long enough to hear Cassian's sigh. Then, he’s off, past the droid who spins to watch him leave. Past the officers and operations personnel who stayed behind. Past Chewie, who barks questioningly at him.

Han turns around, ready to make his grand, life-changing point. All he manages is, “No one’s calling _me_ a coward for missing the final shootout. Whaddya say, Chewie? I bet the kid could use some backup.”

This is ridiculous. If the Wookiee knows what's good for him, he’ll knock Han out and drag his unconscious carcass off this rock for good. But Chewie’s been around these Rebels too long too. He belts his enthusiastic agreement and rushes into the Falcon. Han sprints after him.

This is officially the _worst_  call Han has ever made in his life. Worse than picking up that broke Rebel on Tatooine. Worse than teaming up with that farm boy and his old fossil friend.

But if life has shown Han anything, it’s that bad feelings can turn out better than he expects. What the hell, Han might as well give this 'hope' thing a try for once.

*The End*


End file.
